The Tiger's Wife Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sunday, December 2, 11:00 a.m.

  Everywhere around the South China Sea he had been known as Tuan Machan. A brown and hot-fleshed girl had dubbed him with this Malayan epithet early in his stormy career, and the title had clung to him through love and war. Whispered in passion or fear, the title had meant the same-Mr. Tiger.

  But now, a Sunday morning early in December, he was in Acapulco, Mexico, and he was known only as Mr. Lucius Bohy, his correct name. He sat hunched over a desk telephone in the sumptuous lobby of the Hotel de las Americas and talked to a friend in Los Angeles, California. He rolled his slim black cigar back and forth in his mouth and said, "You bet your ruddy boots I'm awake. I'm just not interested." In the Sabbath quiet his crackling voice turned heads all through the lobby; there seemed to be some doubt as to whether he needed a telephone.

  "Hey now, did I get the right Luke Bohy?" asked the other man, whose name was Dave Ember. He was an Americanized Chinese, glib and swaggering. "What gives? When the Egyptian told me that you were between wars, I figured you were just the joe to cut into this deal."

  "The Egyptian has got a tin ear. I'm not between wars, I'm done with them." Bohy shifted his big body uncomfortably because he was not used to turning down a drink, a woman, or a friend. "I'm retired," he said.

  "This is an absolutely number one setup," persisted Ember. "For which I've been tracking you all over the map." He carefully explained it all again. About the guerrilla group in South China that had money for guns.

  About some cases of Garands that he had a line on. About shipment to Singapore via a Danish line, transshipment to Bangkok, and flying them into Yunnan, payment on delivery. "Doesn't it sound safe and pretty? All I need is to raise some dough. And a partner. You."

  "Well, it's been nice talking to you, Dave," said Bohy.

  "Hey, now!" yelped Ember. "Don't kid around at these prices, you sha-dz. You weren't retired six months ago."

  "I'm retired now."

  "Oh, goddam! I've been hearing that guff ever since I knew you. Don't waste-"

  "It's not guff. I'm doing it this time," Bohy said earnestly. "I had a lot of thoughts about it in that stinking hospital. Why the hell should I die of bullets when I've got enough money and I'm not getting any younger? I mean to die of peace and quiet, a long time from now. You know, get married, have me a family, some kids to play with…"

  Ember choked, "Oh, goddam!" again and then exploded a string of Chinese curses. Bohy leaned back, patiently nursing the telephone receiver, smiling a little as he puffed his cigar. He was a big blond man with a short soup-bowl haircut and an amiable open face. The face and his broad hands were reddish with sunburn and peeling slightly, a perpetual condition. At first glance he looked like a prosperous farmer. But to think that was to ignore certain details: the left ear with the lobe missing; the white scar line under his jaw; and, most important, his eyes, yellow and sensual and roving.

  The eyes gave him away. They betrayed a volcanic nature that could erupt violently. Even Bohy didn't care much for this aspect of himself-that he could be a bad enemy. He preferred to be a good friend, loyal, solicitous. But he had been involved in violence of various kinds all his life, and he was nearly forty. The passport in his coat pocket, greasy from official thumbings, said he was an American. The bankbook in the same pocket, brand-new and from the Banco Nacional de Mexico, said he was a well-to-do American.

  He wore a light gray suit of tropical worsted, an open-weave linen shirt with detachable collar, and a gaudy yellow-and-black tie. His entire newly purchased wardrobe consisted of duplicates of this ensemble, except that some of the neckties were even louder. Bohy had found the style of clothes that suited him and he saw no reason to change about. He was equally loyal to rum and to his long black panatelas.

  Dave Ember had given up cursing for pleading. "… not giving you a bum steer, Luke. You know the Egyptian's on the level, don't you? You know that we're just the two guys who can get the guns in all right, don't you? And get paid for them, three times what they're worth? Listen to reason."

  "I'm tired of kicking around the world," said Bohy. He sighted a woman coming in from the bright outdoors and he watched her cross the lobby. She was a tall full-figured creature in a green bolero-jacket sun dress that showed off the pale roundness of her arms. "There's other things in life. I mean to find out about them."

  "Read a book sometime," snapped Ember. "At your age, a man's what he's made himself, no changing. I never thought that Luke Bohy-" He made a disgusted noise like a cat spitting. "Tuan Machan!" he snorted.

  "Those days are over," said Bohy condescendingly. He watched the woman harder, the way she walked. It was graceful, self-assured, almost a strut; she knew, demurely, that she'd be looked at. Her dark red hair had a hundred different ways of gleaming, it seemed to Bohy. Her mouth was red too, with a luscious lower lip, and her black bat-winged eyebrows arced startlingly against a creamy forehead. There was a faintly pleased twist to the mouth and a faintly questioning tilt to her head, as if she'd lately got the better of a small bargain and was wondering whom she could confide in.

  "Hell on wheels," murmured Bohy. His eyes had widened sentimentally. He laid the telephone receiver gently on the desk, suddenly deaf to Dave Ember's yapping voice. He watched the redheaded woman go up the stairway. "What a pretty rump," he breathed wonderingly. Then she had gone out of sight and he got to his feet and plodded over to the registration desk. "Aqui," he said in his crackling voice, and banged his fist on the polished counter. The dapper Mexican clerk appeared quickly.

  "Hay una mujer bella," Bohy began, and described the woman in Spanish. His Spanish, though serviceable, wasn't as fluent as his Oriental tongues. "Is this woman a guest of your fine management, and, granting this, what is her room number?"

  Like the rest of the hotel staff the clerk was a little afraid of the big loud-voiced American. He said placatingly, "Yes, Senor Bohy, I know of the lovely woman in question. She is Senora Jill Spring."

  "Senora?"

  "A widow," the clerk said. "Of an American millionaire," he added. "Her suite is Number Two-o-one."

  Bohy nodded and stalked to the stairs. He knew from experience that the millionaire part was a hospitable exaggeration. On the way up the staircase he muttered confidently to himself. He was reciting. "Mrs. Spring?" he would say. "My name is Lucius Bohy. You don't know me, of course, but if you'd join me at dinner tonight I think we'd discover a great deal in common."

  Then he was at her door and he hesitated. He took the cigar out of his mouth and, with no place to discard it, he ground out the fire against his heel and dropped the butt in his pocket. He knocked.

  At the sound of her heels, he found himself in a cold sweat. He couldn't understand it. Then her door swung open and she was standing there, beautiful and curious. In one hand she held a leather-bound book, and Bohy could see that they were poems in French. She had discarded the jacket part of her sun dress, and he had to wrench his eyes upward from her bare shoulders. Everything about her seemed the best of womanhood, firm with youthfulness but ripe with maturity, yet he hadn't come after her primarily because of her flesh.

  He managed to say, "You look like a nice woman. I'm a nice fellow."

  He was caught in her eyes. They were long eyes and frank and a soft deep violet color that gave him a sensation of bathing in them. She said, "I don't understand," in a cultured voice that he thought was just right.

  What was it he had meant to say? He gritted his teeth. "I'm from Booneville, Arkansas, originally. I saw you for the first time just now and I said to myself, 'There's a blasted handsome woman that I ought to…' " He was imploring, clumsily because it was a new experience.

  She said definitely, "Thank you, but that'
s not sufficient." She closed her door again. He heard the lock turn and her heels going away from him.

  Bohy sighed. "Well, I sure bitched that up," he said, and plodded down the hall, getting out his cigar and relighting it. He was a sha-dz, a fool, as Dave Ember had said. Yet somehow he didn't feel hopeless about the encounter; he felt rather uplifted.

  He was thinking about Jill Spring as he crossed the lobby toward the bar. He saw the phone still off the hook and he remembered Ember then. But the connection was broken. The Chinese soldier of fortune was staying at the Argo Hotel in L.A., so Bohy asked the operator to get him.

  Ember was caustic but optimistic.

  "Nope, Dave," said Bohy cheerfully. "Just wanted to say good-by properly. I'm going to get married-and I just met the woman."

  "Luke, damned if I understand you. And damned if that doesn't make two of us." Ember sighed then and wished him good luck. "Ju-ni-cheng-gong, you devil's bull. Hey now, when you get a bellyful of that sitting still, the Egyptian'll know where I am. I'll be glad to see you and-"

  "Bet your boots," said Bohy, scarcely listening. He was doodling on a piece of hotel stationery. "Luck with you, Dave."

  "Luck with you, fellow," repeated Ember sorrowfully.

  After he'd hung up, Bohy took up his piece of stationery and studied what he had been writing, a series of names. Mrs. Jill Bohy, Mrs. Lucius Bohy, Mrs. L. D. Bohy… He stuffed the paper in his pocket, feeling good about life, and ambled toward the bar, chuckling.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sunday, December 2, 8:00 p.m.

  That evening, despite the two dozen orchids he had ordered delivered to Jill Spring's suite, Bohy dined alone. Freshly shaved and with all clean clothes, he munched phlegmatically through dinner at La Bocana, the rooftop night club of the Hotel de las Americas. The full moon was like a glob of mercury, and in one direction it rippled on the Pacific Ocean and in another direction it reflected calmly on the bay. It was a balmy night. In downtown Acapulco could be seen the colored lights of the plaza and the movement of automobiles.

  But Bohy had eyes only for Jill Spring, who also dined alone, on the far side of the dance floor. His gaze was steady and accusing. She wasn't wearing a single one of his orchids and she didn't acknowledge his existence. After he'd had a Cuba Libre he decided there wasn't room for any flowers on her dress. It was a severe black taffeta dress, low on her gleaming shoulders. She wore a filmy wisp of stole and a silver barette on one side of her red hair. "Handsome, damn handsome," he growled to himself. "Dainty eater. Plenty of character." He had another Cuba Libre.

  The rumba orchestra was already clicking away and occasionally a dancing couple marred his view. It was while he was angrily shifting his position that he noticed the other man, also dining alone. The other man was a scrawny unhealthy-faced fellow and he didn't watch the woman as openly as Bohy. He stole glances from behind his amber-tinted spectacles instead of staring directly.

  Bohy stiffened with jealousy. The new emotion ached inside his big chest. Maybe he just admires pretty women, he thought. But it didn't help the ache; he hadn't considered that there might be competition. Immediately he didn't like the ostentatious cut of the other man's clothes, or his pug nose, or his black hair, which needed trimming at the edges. Bohy summoned a waiter.

  "Who's that snake?" he asked, pointing.

  The waiter squinted, frowned, remembered. "The reservation was in the name of Senor Cherry. An American." He added quickly, "Very wealthy, I understand."

  "In a pig's eye," said Bohy. "Another Cuba Libre." He glowered pensively into the bottom of his empty glass. When he glanced up a moment later, the scrawny man was standing by his elbow. Bohy straightened defensively, sure that Cherry had read his thoughts, which were brutal.

  Cherry said, "You asking about me?" He had a nasal voice and he spoke without moving his upper lip or showing his upper teeth.

  Bohy didn't want trouble. He didn't want Jill Spring to get it in her head that he was a roughneck. He said, "Not exactly. I was asking the waiter what you were eating." He folded his arms and tried to look gentlemanly.

  "Yeah?" said Cherry.

  "Thought it might be seviche. That's a specialty of the house. Raw fish with lemon juice and some spices."

  "Roast beef," said Cherry. "Rare." He contemplated the blond man for a moment. "You got to be careful what you ask for in these foreign places." Then he went back to his table.

  Bohy unfolded his arms and congratulated himself on his restraint. As for Cherry's final remark, it sounded pretty much like a warning, but it could hardly have been that, since he was capable of tearing the scrawny fellow apart.

  Meanwhile Jill Spring had finished her coffee and disappeared. Bohy didn't encounter her on the elevator or in the main-floor lobby. He lit a cigar and patiently took up his post at the adjoining bar, where he could drink Cuba Libres while he watched everyone who went in or out of the hotel.

  Presently a wistful smile lit up his broad face. She appeared at the head of the staircase-a vision especially for him, he made believe. She had changed into green sweater and slacks, her hair bound back by a ribbon. Now she looked younger, like one of the daughters Bohy intended to have someday. In one hand she carried a small bag woven of straw. She came down the stairs and he fell in love with brand-new things about her, the carefree swing of her arms, the way she blinked and then smiled as she asked something of the desk clerk. She crossed the lobby and went out into the night without seeing Bohy. "She was humming," he told himself tenderly.

  He tossed off his drink, preparing to follow. Then he stopped, his yellow eyes closing to slits. A second familiar figure passed through the lobby: Cherry. He had added a Panama hat to his ensemble; the brim nearly touched his tinted glasses. Just from the casual way he drifted through the front doors of the hotel, Bohy knew the woman was being followed.

  Bohy's slow smile wasn't humorous. He reached the broad veranda in time to spy on both the man and the woman. Jill was driving off at the wheel of an English MG, the kind that could be rented from the travel agency. Cherry was just clambering into the rear of a native taxi. He rolled off in the same direction, west.

  Bohy trotted down the steps and woke up another taxi driver and joined the parade. He didn't know what was up but he didn't like the look of it. His career had made him sensitive to such situations; he knew the smell of danger like a favorite food.

  The night was still and the moon brighter than the headlights of the rickety taxi. They sped west onto the fishhook peninsula that embraced the bay of Acapulco. When they passed other resort hotels the thump of Latin music trickled into the cab over the engine sound, and the air was sweet with jasmine. The starry horizon was fringed with palm-tree silhouettes. They followed the roadway alongside the harbor beach. As they neared the yacht club, Bohy sighted the taillight of Cherry's cab and lost it again. He growled for more speed from his driver.

  He never did see the taxi again, but suddenly they came upon the MG, empty, parked by a mango grove. They were on the ocean side of the peninsula, the west curve of the fishhook. Bohy paid off his driver and sent the cab on its way. He supposed Cherry had done the same.

  After crushing out his cigar, he walked over to the edge of the low cliffs. Below him the surf rolled and hissed on the sands of La Caleta, one of the vacation city's many beaches. The level moonlit whiteness stretched for a couple of hundred yards of gradual curves. He didn't see any movement. But there were many small coves of sand completely shadowed by the cliffs.

  The woman's scream began and ended in the same instant.

  Bohy wheeled and ran in that direction. His feet made almost no noise as he raced along the cliff edge, although he wasn't being purposely cautious.

  He stopped and looked down. A dozen feet below he saw the end of some savage drama. Jill Spring was naked, sprawled face down on the sand, unmoving. Her clothes were folded neatly beside the woven bag she had carried from the hotel. Cherry crouched over her limp nude body, his Panama hat glinting in the m
oonlight. His hand was upraised with the blackjack, ready for a second blow.

  Bohy gave an animal roar. The Panama hat tilted back as Cherry's sallow face looked up, startled. Bohy had already leaped. He lit stiff-legged on the scrawny man's shoulders and they both rolled heavily on the sand. Bohy was on his feet again by the time Cherry commenced to crawl and shake his head dazedly. Bohy kicked him in the jaw. Cherry collapsed.

  Bohy scarcely spared him a glance. "Oh, honey, honey," he murmured as he knelt by Jill. He found the blood trickling from behind her ear and pressed her skull gently but couldn't find anything broken. He sat back on his haunches and grinned with relief. She was cold, but that was all.

  He looked at her lovingly. The moonlight gave her skin an almost luminous glow. Like an inquisitive ape he touched her bare hip with a forefinger. The touch was ivory-smooth and warm and electric. Then he grunted to himself, "You're a coarse kind of bastard. The lady didn't invite you."

  With a sigh he unfolded her sweater and slacks and spread them modestly over her body. He moved her panties and brassiere around to the other side of her woven bag so they wouldn't embarrass her by being in his plain view when she recovered. "Helpless honey," he addressed her softly. "I'm a nice fellow when I stop and think."

  Cherry began making harsh breathing noises. Bohy ransacked his pockets and extracted a bulldog .38 revolver, a switch-blade knife, and a wallet with considerable money in it. Bohy read through the wallet. The gun permit had been issued in Kansas City, Missouri, to Charles J. Cherry. He replaced the wallet. The gun, knife, and blackjack he pitched into the phosphorescent waters of the moonlit Pacific.

  Then he took the gunman by one foot and dragged him across the sand like a sack of potatoes and up a rugged path to the roadway. He sat down on a rock, lit a panatela, and waited for Cherry to recover. It didn't take long. Cherry made gasping noises, then lay absolutely still, then suddenly tried to scramble to his feet and grab for his gun at the same time.